In our Crestline dining room is a favored green chair, stuffed and contoured precisely for comfort, and with a matching ottoman on which to stretch legs and prop feet. While sitting there one morning last week, gazing into the trees and across the far sky that canopies Lake Gregory, I saw these two leaves flutter from a near-by oak and settle into the needled pine that frames the glass expanse.
A bit of life–and consequently of death–had I observed in the downward flutter, and in the quiet minutes of that morning, as I pondered the wily subject, I found myself no more wiser than had I been at my last encounter with the thought of ultimate existence. With the consideration of leaves and tiny rodents (one of which the night before Jerry had snared with peanut butter) am I able to distance myself, and with less emotion comprehend the logical, “eternal” cycle: birth, life and death.
For soon the veined leaf will serve its span and finish its falling. On the cold earth, atop thousands of acorns, the leaf will dissolve, and before many days have passed snow and ice will be its cover; a new season will begin. Had we exceptional hearing and seeing ability, within the rotting acorn, could be seen and heard a rustle, as life writhes and prepares for Spring.